


Judgment Day

by TheLexFiles



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Death, Gen, Violence, uh, yeah basically i had a thought and then this happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 09:11:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13096950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLexFiles/pseuds/TheLexFiles
Summary: Will doesn’t believe it. He crouches, feels himself nearly sick as he reaches to pull each piece away. It reveals nothing. The box that would serve as Ferguson’s final resting place is empty.





	Judgment Day

**Author's Note:**

> I rewatched season 5 again, and came about with this idea that I thought I should write into a fic and share the pain with you. Again, violence and death within - this isn't sunshine and rainbows, and I'll probably leaving you asking for more because that's just the kind of person I am.
> 
> Also I was listening to Introduction I by Library Tapes on their album, Escapism for inspiration.

“I am in here!”

Dirt muffles and disguises Joan Ferguson’s cries for help. This undertaker cares little for the body in the plywood coffin. He continues his task under the cover of the midnight moon and the wind that whistles through the underbrush. Over and over, he returns the dirt to its place, burying a damaged soul – but this one is still very much _alive_.

He tries not to think of it, despite her screaming pleas.

Under the weight of the earth, the coffin begins to crack and crumble. It’s a cheap alternative to the real thing, with no intention of enduring this trial.

Joan Ferguson flicks the lighter and illuminates her last sight; Bea Smith stares back at her with a smile.

_I win._

Even in death, revenge is a bitch.

She screams. Here she is worthless, pointless, and _nobody cares_.

This is where she dies, suffocating in her own exhaust and _filth_.

* * *

 _Get it together, Joan_.

The voice of a ghost from the past comes back to haunt, but Ivan’s encouragement is a welcome reprieve to the panic.

She only has so long before she chokes, before the dirt caves in.

At first, her marred hand rips away the portrait of Bea, shreds it in half. Her free hand then pats around for the scissors, cold and grounding. Staples were to be removed – a simple exit to freedom, when above ground. Instead, she pockets them in her teal waistband. This is the test of strength, of dedication to completing a task – to _surviving_.

Joan pulls the collar of her sweater over her mouth and nose. She counts to ten, steadies her breathing. Already, the wood is cracked above her. All it needs is another push. And another. And another. Wood splinters beneath the force, and more dirt falls in.

_Focus._

With the intensity of a fencer on the back of heels, Joan digs, pushes loose, cold dirt towards her feet, away from her face.

It’s an uphill battle, but it’s her only way out.

* * *

The phoenix rises from the ashes.

Gasping breaths suck in night air. Joan’s lungs _burn_ with the sensation with her body still half in her unmarked grave. Dirt clings to her hair. It’s in her eyes, her mouth, her nose. Like a rabid animal, her hands claw and rub at her face to rid herself of the sensation. Blood shot eyes bear tears of stress and relief.

Slowly, she crawls, one arm over the other from the hole that would have sealed her fate, once and for all. Branches are pushed aside. Leaves and twigs catch in her hair, but the deed is done.

The scissors poke at her side, and she takes them in hand. Kicking herself free, Joan turns and sits up on the ground. A fire, a lynching, a burial – all have _failed_ to keep her down.

Sputtering still, Joan rises, wipes her mouth. She will never be free of this filth, but it serves as a distraction.

She’s better than that.

 _Run_ , _Joan_. _What are you doing?_

Thinking of what to do beneath the clear, translucent moonlight, the obvious answer is to run into the woods, headlong until she can’t continue any longer. She’s an escapee, run from an inevitable death at the hands of filthy pigs looking to get their scraps from the trough in any way, shape or form.

She should run.

The sounds of an engine and car tires on gravel, however, tell her otherwise.

As headlights illuminate the dark path, Joan runs into the woods, headlong into the underbrush.

But she doesn’t run free forever. Instead, she awaits her would-be executioner in this treacherous land. She lies in wait as a truck approaches. Her hand curls protectively around the scissors, feels the cool steel against her palm.

Like a predator in the night, she stalks her prey, and waits for it to come out in the open.

* * *

The truck comes to a screeching, hurried halt against the gravel pathway. With the engine left running, high beams put a spotlight into the forest.

Will Jackson runs out, nearly trips over himself in his efforts.

He procures the same burying spade out of the bed of the truck, and runs to the fresh grave. In his hurry, and under the cover of darkness, little does he notice the ways that the earth has been disturbed, or how the branches he so cleverly pulled over are broken in places.

He starts to dig, _dig, and dig_. 

Guilt comes in all forms. He couldn’t let her burn, _she couldn_ _’t let her hang_ , he can’t let her suffocate. It’s wrong, even for all that Joan has done, for all that this has been about.

One decision of the past has led to this, and it lingers over him now, twenty years ago.

Sweat pours down Will’s forehead and stains his hoodie with wet patches. He doesn’t relent – he can’t.

What will happen when he unearths his biggest sin is uncertain; if Joan has already expired, this effort will be for naught. If she is alive, then she will know who did this to begin with.

Either way, Will doesn’t let himself breathe, chest heaving with the exertion. His mouth is dry. He feels like he might throw up with the threat of dry heaves at the back of his throat.  

What he doesn’t see is his near future; his fated death, once and for all.

* * *

The rumbling of the truck engine is enough to disguise Joan’s advance through the brush. Bloodshot eyes have watched the figure in his hurry to unbury her. It’s an admission of guilt, one Joan had suspected would come back at some point. Or at least, to ensure that the deed was done.

In the shadows, she catches glimpses of the now unhooded figure.

Will Jackson digs deeper and deeper.

The corner of her mouth curls in a snarl. This long-standing duel has come to its end, and she will rise victorious.

Circling the edge of the clearing, Joan approaches. She looks as much of a creature of the dark wood in the dead of night as anything else, covered in dirt and leaves with blood shot eyes and the red bruising around her neck. Raven hair has come undone from its hold, and dirtied teal does little to camouflage. 

Her heart beats like a war drum. She counts, watches as Will continues to dig and dig, over and over.

One step after another, the scissors in her hand are moved to keep the point outward with the intention to maim, to make him _bleed_.

The sound of the spade hitting wood resonates through the clearing. Will sighs heavily, should sagging. This is only the first part of discovery, of knowing whether or not he has committed murder in the first degree.

* * *

Initially, Will had driven, well over the speed limit into the night until pulling over to steady his shaking hands. He parked for ten minutes in silence, staring himself down in the rear-view mirror.

For all the lives lost and the people hurt because of Ferguson, it had to be done. A necessary evil all on its own. He tried to justify it again and again, over and over, but guilt washed over, and like a plague, he felt ill. Sick with himself.

He had called one person he could trust, and hoped she would listen.

* * *

The wood beneath the spade is splintered, broken apart into several pieces, more than what one would expect from the weight of the dirt.

Another few stabs are made at the grave, pulling apart the wreckage below.

Will doesn’t believe it. He crouches, feels himself nearly sick as he reaches to pull each piece away. It reveals nothing. The box that would serve as Ferguson’s final resting place is empty.

Upon approach, Joan takes satisfaction in his dumbfounded stare, peering down at the death trap that anyone else would surely have succumbed to.

But not her.

Like a predator, she advances upon her prey with soft, silent steps, one after the other. With her fixation, she ignores the sound of another car’s arrival, and instead, lunges forth, all vengeance in her first strike.

A kick to the back of Will’s knees buckles him forwards and down into the hole, yelling in surprise, and confirming his worst fears. Joan follows through behind him – her bandaged hand, red and scarred, takes no mercy in grabbing him by the hair, tugging backwards, exposing his neck.

She decided long before this to allow no struggle, no chance for this to fall apart.

The glint of silver catches under the moonlight, raised by the right hand of the Devil herself and quickly plunges the pointed ends of the scissors into Will’s windpipe. Over, and over, _and over_.

She is brutal as she is efficient. The third or fourth stab connects with the jugular vein. He gurgles, sputters with wide eyes staring up at the full moon. His end will be quick, relatively speaking.

Blood spews in spurts with his rapid heartbeat, covering Ferguson’s hands and sleeves in bright, hot red. They stand in her grave, but only one body will remain – and it isn’t hers.

“F-Fuck!” is all that Will can manage, even as his arms splay and struggle to pull himself out of Ferguson’s death grip. Even if he escapes her hold, the damage is already done. More and more she continues. She growls with the effort, driving it home, over and over. His sweater stains and the blood spews from his mouth and throat, coating dirt in slick, shiny wetness that glints under the night sky. This plays out according to plan; Will doesn’t need to turn his head to know who’s to blame.  

A car door slams. Joan barely hears the click of heels nor the jingle of keys over this fantasy, playing out in a bloodied mess.

 _“Will?!_ _”_

Vera Bennett stares in abject horror.

* * *

The voice of reason calls out into the dark, and upon one last thrust, the Devil stops in her work. The scissors are left plunged into Will’s flesh as he continues to sputter and spew the last of his life.

Slowly, Joan turns her head. All down the front of her teal sweater is covered in blood, stained over her bruised neck and blood shot eyes. Add in the dirt, and she appears true to form – a demon in the night.

“Oh God,” Vera’s lips move but it doesn’t quite register that words have been spoken, disrupting the air, disrupting this performance. She knows of Ferguson’s previous handiwork (intimately, with Juice’s tongue as her last birthday present), but never has she once witnessed it _first-hand_.

Joan’s chest heaves from the effort. She pushes Will over unceremoniously, into the soft mow of unearthed soil. The deed is done. What was once her grave is now his final resting place.

“Oh _God_ ,” Vera exclaims again. She is frozen in place, ten feet apart, but even from this distance, she has seen it all.  Like a doe caught in the headlights, she can’t bring herself to look away.

The Devil stares down her former protégé in all her bloodied glory. What were once guiding, supportive hands are now stained and scarred with sin for Vera to see.

“Why? Why didn’t you _run,_ Joan?” Vera pleads, ocean eyes wide. She feels nothing but fear, heart pounding in her ears. She should run. She _should_ run, but she won’t.

 _Always with you, Governor_.

“Couldn’t.” Joan says, finally breaking her mode of silence. She wets her lips and tastes his blood, and oh, how _bittersweet_ it is. This is the ultimate ending to all of this. Poetic justice at its **finest**.

“What?” Cautiously, Vera steps forward. She should run the other way, back into her car, alert the authorities, and fabricate a story. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s hidden the truth.

“I couldn’t let him…” Joan spits into the grave, trying to rid herself of the warm, metallic taste that lingers on her skin, her clothes. From below in the dirt, Will inhales his last, choking breath, and expires, defeated. “Not… not after what he’s done.”

“For what? Trying to bury you?” Vera remembers their recent conversation. He couldn’t let her burn, she couldn’t let her hang, but he could _bury her_ – a method that wouldn’t involve looking Joan Ferguson in the eye while she perished.

“ _No_ ,” Joan shakes her head, sighs deeply. She should run into the hills. She shouldn’t _let_ Vera see this, or spare her from seeing it any longer, and living with the memory that haunts, day in, day out, and in her nightmares. She won’t have to check beneath the bed for a monster when her mentor was the _true_ monster all along. She scoffs. This filth disgusts her now, but she fights the compulsion to wipe it away. “He was the social worker…”

“ _What_?” Confused, Vera takes another brave step forward, closer and closer to the Devil in the attempt to understand her. “Will was a social worker, yes, but what does that have to do with you?”

Joan’s head turns. Pitch black eyes stare at her. Vera’s betrayal still runs deep, and playing innocent doesn’t help her cause.

“Don’t act like you don’t know, Vera. _You used it against me._ _”_

This reasoning doesn’t resonate at first – until it does.

“That wasn’t me, Joan.” Years later, it still stings. Vera can vividly remember the slap upon her cheek that bruised, made her feel _whiplash_. “Will… Will was the social worker…  that took Jianna’s baby away.”

The sudden realization dawns on the current Governor. It makes her heart rise into her throat, and her stomach drop with its weight.

All of this for something nearly twenty-five years ago. It makes her feel sick. _All of **this**_ for some kind of sick and twisted, bloody revenge.

“That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” Even as Joan seeks to remain in control, the well of emotion in her throat chokes her up. She looks away.

“All of this…” Quietly, Vera begins to step back. Her voice quivers. Her hands shake. She shouldn’t be here. She swallows the threat of spewing what little remains in her stomach. “Y-you need to go, Joan. Just… go. For God’s sake, just… _go_.”

Slowly, Joan turns her head again, watching as the pathetic _mouse_ of a Governor backs away, scurrying in the dirt when she trips over herself backwards, landing with a thud.

“You’re afraid…”

“Joan! Just go, for fuck’s sake!” Vera’s pleading cry echoes into the trees, hidden by the wind. Scrambling backwards, she reaches the front end of her car and pulls herself up.

She can’t bear witness to this any longer.

She can’t bear the thought of what Joan might do to her next.

 


End file.
